


Burn

by LoveIsAMyth (sweetponzu)



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV First Person, Psychological, Reverse Chronology, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:29:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetponzu/pseuds/LoveIsAMyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jinyoung just knows Mark is being unfaithful. And he doesn't know if he wants Mark, himself or the rest of the world to burn.</p><p> </p><p>You can now read this story in Vietnamese!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try a different style of writing-- not sure how well I did. it's actually been painful to write but i hope to hear your guy's opinion on it.
> 
> You can now read this story in Vietnamese! Just copy paste this link https://parkoflibra.wordpress.com/2018/02/01/trans-ficmarkjin-burn/
> 
> Many thanks to @parkeunrim for the translation!

 

rinse, repeat.

…

I hear the door close quietly, carefully closed—I can tell—with the gentleness saved for making love or holding a small, tender newborn baby in his arms.

His footsteps echo, even though it’s obvious that he’s taking great care to walk on egg shells—to not wake me.

The bed dips behind me. The cold comes seeping in when the bed covers are lifted but I am quickly enveloped in warmth—so much so that it feels like I’m burning up with hot coals surrounding me; constricting me.

My husband is so warm.

“Babe, you asleep?”

Ahh, so caring. My husband—I love you, you know that?

“mhhmmm…”

…

 

The doorbell rings. Months ago, my heart would have skipped a beat, but I know it’s not him.

“Oring’s delivery. What time would you like for me to pick up the containers?” The deliveryman asks, with a winning smile.

“Could you actually stay for a moment? I’ll hand it back to you as soon as I transfer it to my dishes.” I ask him, making sure to keep my voice pliant and smooth.

He peers a little behind me—undoubtedly spotting the small pile of broken glass on the dustpan.

“Okay.” He replies, as I let him in. I sit him on the couch, offering tea. He declines politely, with a wide smile.

“Ahh, I have a cat as well—always caused trouble like this too.” He says, gesturing towards the pile.

“Ah, yes, they do tend to do that.” I nod along, as I carefully arrange the take out on the dish—the one with the blue sparrows etched into the ceramic; a truly beautiful set of plates gifted on to us on our wedding day—taking care to make it look arranged. I take a bit of the extra and put it in a pan—I place the pan on top of the stove and heat it for a bit.

I haven’t cooked for months.

“Ahh, did the dish get cold?” The delivery man asks, his wide smile plastered on his face again, his eyes closed. His left eyelid had two moles side by side on them.

“No, not at all. My husband just likes his meals to be very hot—almost burning.” I reply.

Looking at him, he now looks uncomfortable with what I’ve said.

…

 

I clean up the broken glass. I pick them up, piece by piece; looking at each and seeing my smile reflected back at me—I almost broke them on the floor again.

I cleaned thoroughly; it wouldn’t do if Mark bled from a stray piece.

…

 

The shower is burning hot. As if fire was being poured against my skin in tiny pressurized points. But the ash on my hair is gone and I feel clean again.

The ring on my finger becomes superheated, almost branding a ring of red on my finger. Rubbing only makes it more of an angry red, so I leave it.

…

 

I look at the inside of my wedding band. It is very clean—smooth.

I look at the outside of my wedding band. It isn’t very clean, its surface was lackluster.

I stare a bit more—wondering what the state of my wedding ring says about me.

Then, I put it on.

…

 

The house is empty and devoid of warmth. I didn’t expect anything less.

I nearly step on a piece of glass, on my way to our room.

…

 

There’s ash on my favorite winter coat—why did I wear my favorite winter coat? Ahh, what’s done is done.

The night market is packed and filled with customers and vendors alike. Sales pitches, cheap hagglers, begging children—all sound seems to pass through me. My shoes make an unpleasant crunch sound whenever I step forward—I’ll need to throw these away later.

“Ahh Jinyoung! Welcome back. I was going to give you a couple of clothes that my nephew had grown out of—that nephew of mine is just growing way too fast!--, to add to your donation but you were already gone when I came to knock at your door.” She welcomes me, her face sporting a kindly smile, all her laugh lines crinkling. I constantly dream of growing old with the person I love, grow old with them till our hairs turn white, our skin dryer than leather and our eyes fail us. To use my hands and trace his laugh lines, that I would have undoubtedly memorized by then, without needing to the use of my eyes.

“Aigo, is that ash on your shoulders?” Her smile turns to concern, as she tries to reach up—small as she was—to dust of the tops of my shoulders. Grey ash spill over like snow—it’s almost pretty.

…

 

Burn.

I inhale the smoke and my lungs reject it—my throat burning like the clothes and letters I’ve ripped apart.

Burn—BURNBURNBURN.

My eyes are tearing up, from the smoke, from the burning, from everything that makes me feel trapped, constricted—the burning pile of  _him_ is too much for my eyes to bear. So they tear and I have to close them.

Do you think I’m stupid?! I scream.

WHY? I cry.

How could you? I drop to my knees.

Who? There’s ash on my knees.

ARGHHHHHHHHH. I close my eyes.

Inhale again. Burn again.

Then I get up. Dust off my knees. Wipe off the tears.

…

 

The garbage bag is heavy. Halfway through the way, after everyone who knows me is long gone and far away, I give up carrying it. I drag it behind me as I walk.

One step, two step. I feel like dancing.

It’s cold. But I have my favorite, trusty coat—I’ll be fine.

I look behind me. There is a trail of something wet following the path I went. I was worried they were my tears but, silly Jinyoung [he liked saying that to me while kissing the crown of my head, the side of my neck, my trembling eyelids…] the human body can’t produce that many tears at once.

The oil must’ve spilt in the bag.

I shrug—everything is fine. Everything will burn anyway.

…

 

Who knew lighter fluid is so expensive nowadays? I think as I observe their selection; I’ve been at this aisle for five straight minutes now.

“Are you planning a bonfire?” A chipper employee asks me.

“Hmm, sort of?” I answer, giving him a winning smile with just the right curve of my eyebrow to come off a little unsure. I’m not sure how well I executed this—it seems harder to control my body.

“Ah, this must be your first time then.”

“No. Not really, I’m just trying to pick out the cheapest lighter fluid—how come they are so expensive nowadays?” I ask, turning to him, peering at his name tag, almost staggering forward with the little motion.

“Ahh, it is. I actually see you here often, so I’ll give you a little tip for being a loyal customer; vegetable oil can be a suitable substitute, much cheaper too!” He mock whispers enthusiastically, leaning forward into my space—I take a small inconspicuous step back. I didn’t want him to smell my breath.

He must be new. The sparkles in his eyes remind me of the vast, starry sky.

I’ve slept beside him, gave him my heart, and poured everything that I am to him-- with the stars as our witness, once. But that was once and long ago. Maybe I should suggest another trip? Mark would probably say no. But nowadays, there is little else we talk about anyway.

“Thank you for the tip, Yugyeom-ssi.” I tell him, careful to keep my words measured. It would do no good to slur, lest I concern the kid.

…

 

Glass breaks so easily.

People cry so easily.

It’s pathetic. I think, as I cry into my own hands. Pieces of a broken bottle laid out in front of me—I like to imagine that each piece reflected all the things I hated about him.

But all I see reflected is my face.

…

 

I pass over the cabinet filled with decanters and bottles of expensive alcohol. All aged, with authentification stamped on them.

The older they are, the more precious; more delicious; more important; more desirable.

If only the same applied to people. To relationships.

I crouch down, moving the small, faded rug—it says ‘Happily Ever After to J&M’; it was a wedding gift—on top of the floor. I hook my fingers to the small break in the wood and lift. The small cache opens—revealing selection of cheap, unaged, alcohol.

These are what I drink. Cheap. Unaged. Not precious. Not important. Not desirable.

Ahhh, I am now relating myself to cheap alcohol. I must be going crazy? No, just mad.

Hmm, tears are salty. And the alcohol burns.

…

 

“I brought breakfast—and no you cannot refuse; you never eat breakfast. Plus, no one else will eat these, since my nephew is out for the week. Won’t you humor an old lady like myself?” The landlord, an old lady with a kind wizened face, pleads.

I look to the old faded rug placed on the kitchen floor, a little past the liquor cabinet—it can wait.

I concede and let her in.

…

 

“Do you want breakfast?” I ask him, as I lounge on the bed.

No, I’ll be late.

“No, I’ll be late.” He answers.

Word per word.

“Okay, take care then.” I say getting up and following him to the door.

As he turns the knob, I put my hand on top of his. How long has it been since I held my husband’s hand? His hand feels cold, almost clammy. But still, my hand feels like its burning.

“Give me a kiss.” I look up at him, through my eyelashes, making sure to keep my voice almost faint, and in a soft, pleading tone.

He looks at me for a moment. And I feel cold. Because it doesn’t feel like he’s looking at me?

Then he leans down and kisses the top of my head.

Then, he leaves without another word.

…

 

“Jin-ie, have you seen my jacket?” Mark asks, not turning away from the mirror as he buttons his shirt.

“hmm, which one?” I ask him, snaking my arms over his shoulders and nuzzling his neck.

“The blue one--the one you gave me a couple years back for Christmas.” He replies, reaching up to weave his hand through his hair. He sounded frustrated.

He should be—the same things keep happening every month. But really, what use did he have of something that came from me, when he has no need of me anyway, right?

“Ah, hmmm, I don’t know—I think it may have been included in the pile of clothes I donated to the homeless for the holidays…I’m sorry.” I tell him, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his neck in apology. He just sighs in return. Shaking me off to face me, giving me a small, almost reluctant smile.

I return it with a soft one, making sure to keep my eyes trained on his.

…

 

The clock says 5:28 am. My husband will wake up, in approximately two minutes from now.

I look down at his peacefully sleeping face. I get an uncontrollable urge to keep him there—peacefully sleeping on the bed for eternity. It always comes—the urges—when a new day begins.

I clutch at the pillow I almost used to smother my husband, tightly.

Once the worst of the urges pass away, I go back to sleep.

…

 

rinse, repeat.


End file.
